


As You Wish

by khasael



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Humor, M/M, Movie Reference, Princess Bride, Quotations, movie quotes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-25
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-15 01:51:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/521872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khasael/pseuds/khasael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harvey's not a farm boy. Mike's not a princess. And yet...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hot Dogs and Fire Swamps

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is in celebration of the 25th anniversary of the release of _The Princess Bride_. This is a ~~five~~ six times fic that incorporates Harvey's and Mike's canon tendency to [quote films at each other](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tVqzGhgrsIU).

It takes a moment for Mike to realize just how much trouble is in store for him when Harvey grabs Mike by the wrist and tugs him back towards the picnic tables, saying nothing other than the words "Time to kick some ass."

Mike shoots a desperate glance at anyone looking, but it's useless. Donna and Rachel are smirking at him, Harold looks just as confused as Mike does (not that he'd really be any help for anything, in all honesty), and the other associate, Riley, just shrugs and heads in the same direction Mike's being pulled. Well, so much for that.

"Kick some ass?" Mike asks, twisting around so that he's at least going on his own and not being dragged around like a puppy on a leash (which, when he thinks about it, might be a fun thing for later). "You can't possibly tell me we have to run off and go to court or something _now_. It's Saturday. We're at the company picnic. And--"

"And you obviously weren't listening earlier," Harvey says, cutting him off. "It's three-thirty. What's planned for three-thirty?"

Mike sees the bright yellow poster from the break room in his head, the list of scheduled events and planned offerings and attractions printed clearly in bold blue lettering on the lower half. _3:30: Hot Dog Eating Contest (prizes awarded)_. "No, uh-uh, come on," he starts, but Harvey lifts an eyebrow and Mike knows he's lost this argument already.

"We are going up there, we are eating hot dogs until they call time or run out, and we are winning this thing," Harvey tells him firmly. "Donna and I almost had it last year, and I've seen you eat. Now get your ass up to that picnic table."

Mike steps up to one of the empty spots, eying the others standing around. He sort of knows some of these people--Kyle and Owen on one team, Louis's secretary Norma and some guy he recognizes but can't name on another, two of the paralegals Mike's asked questions of when Rachel's not around, and two of the guys from Bankruptcy--and all of them look really, really geared up for this. "What's the prize, anyway?" he asks Harvey, who shushes him and nods towards Jessica, who's stepping up to the table next to another of the senior partners, a much older guy who really can't pull off shorts or sandals. 

"You all know the drill," Jessica calls out, though Mike's not sure he does, other than the obvious. "The goal is twenty hot dogs in seven minutes, but we're still counting total number of hot dogs consumed by each team. First prize is three thousand dollars to the charity of that team's choice, second gets two, and third gets one. Everyone else gets five-hundred towards their preferred charity."

"And what about the grand prize?" someone calls out from the back of the crowd that's gathering.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Jessica says, raising an eyebrow, and everyone laughs. "It's on top of the charity donation and something for the winners themselves, and that's all I'm saying."

Mike looks at Harvey, who's so determined-looking it's kind of comical (and also a little scary). "Seriously, what is it?" he whispers. If he's going to be stuffing himself like this, he at least wants to know what he's going for.

"No one knows," Harvey mutters under his breath. "Her secret. But that prize, Mike, is _ours_."

Maybe it's weird that everyone at the table seems so gung-ho over a prize no one knows the contents of. Or maybe it's that pull that hits so many of the _Let's Make a Deal_ contestants--the thrill of the unknown, and the certainty that it's awesome. Nevertheless, there is something about the way Harvey's so dead-set on winning that has Mike feeling a little excited about this challenge, even as Louis and another junior partner start passing down aluminum trays of hot dogs.

It's about fifteen seconds after Jessica shouts "go!" and he's trying to figure out how to chew, swallow, and breathe at the same time, that Mike realizes all those inhaled lunches from the hot dog cart have been more than just lunch on-the-go for Harvey--they've been _training_ , intentional or not. Harvey's on his second dog before Mike's two-thirds of the way done with his first; some little part of him thinks his stoner side would laugh at him right now, because hell if Mike hasn't crushed a couple of bags of chips and destroyed a pizza faster than this with a case of the munchies, without even trying.

Harvey catches his eye and, even with his mouth stuffed so full it's obscene, he manages to grin. "Faster, rookie," he says while reaching for his third. "I've seen you stuff thicker things than that down your throat like a champ."

Mike very nearly chokes at that, but manages to get food and air into the appropriate pipes. "Not exactly modest, are we?" he gasps, reaching for the water sitting in front of him. 

He gets only a smirk in response, followed by a gesture to keep eating. Mike nods and steels himself for this. He can hear Louis and Jessica counting off total hot dogs eaten for each team, and the crowd gathered in front of the long table is clapping and laughing, and Mike swears he hears someone shout a filthy, innuendo-laden comment at Harvey--someone who sounds a lot like Donna, actually. Whether it's the cheering or Harvey's own enthusiasm, Mike starts to think they've got a shot at this.

It's around his fifth hot dog that Mike starts to falter. 

They're about four minutes in, and already half the teams have tapped out. Kyle and Owen are still in it, though they're slowing, the paralegals are still going strong, and there are two more teams of people Mike doesn't know who are steadily working away at their tray. Mike just looks down at the tray of hot dogs he and Harvey are sharing and shakes his head.

"Five minutes!" Louis calls out, and Harvey looks at Mike, taking a swig of water. 

"You okay?"

"I can't do it. We'll never survive," Mike says, already anticipating the look on Harvey's face--disappointed and irritated. Forget the twenty dogs in seven minutes; Mike doesn't think they'll place top three. 

"Nonsense," Harvey snorts, and the cockily raised eyebrows and surety in his voice are so opposed to what Mike's expected that it knocks him off-guard for a second. "You're only saying that because no one ever has."

Mike can't help but smile at the quote. "Somehow, I'm not sure hot dog eating contests and fire swamps are the same sort of challenge."

"But neither is impossible to beat," Harvey retorts, reaching for another hot dog. "Eat up, Buttercup."

Shaking his head, Mike picks up his own hot dog and takes a large bite. "I'm not a princess," he says as he chews, but if Harvey makes out the words, he chooses not to reply. Mike grins a little, despite his doubts, and gives it a good, solid shot. At the very least, they can beat Kyle, right?

He powers through the rest of the fifth hot dog, only letting himself think about the look on Harvey's face when they win, and the look on Kyle's face when Mike beats him. The sixth takes a bit more effort. The seventh somehow manages to go down and stay down. But the eighth just.... It mocks him.

"Thirty seconds left!" Jessica calls, and Mike groans. He's only managed to finish seven of the damn things, and even that's been stupidly hard. But he's not going to go down without giving it everything he's got, and so he closes his eyes and takes a bite, forcing it down by sheer force of will. He swallows the last bite of the eighth hot dog, dimly hearing Louis yell "Twenty!" just a second before Jessica shouts "Time!"

And then there's so much shouting and cheering Mike feels like he's walked onto the field after a Super Bowl-winning play. He opens his eyes to see Harvey grinning at him like a maniac and wiping hot dog bun crumbs from the corner of his mouth. "Who got twenty?"

"Who got twenty?" Harvey repeats, still grinning. "Why don't you look down and tell me?"

Mike glances down at the aluminum tray in front of them, thinking that he could really do without seeing another hot dog for maybe the rest of his life, but all that's there are crumbs. "But I didn't eat ten." He sounds dazed, even to himself, and all he can figure is that he's so full of hot dog, his brain must be clogged with it.

"Eight," Harvey says, putting a hand on the back of Mike's neck, and it's blessedly cool against his skin. "You got down eight. And I had twelve. Do the math, rookie."

"Oh my God, we actually hit twenty? Before the seven minutes?"

"Just in time," Jessica says, stepping in front of them, which Mike thinks is kind of a brave move for someone in a white blouse, to be so close to people who've just stuffed themselves full past all common sense. She turns to everyone who's been watching and grins. "For the first time, we have a grand prize winner! Everyone, congratulate Harvey Specter and Mike Ross. Gentlemen, your winnings." She hands them each an envelope, and Mike takes his dumbly. 

Harvey snags it from him and slips both envelopes into his pocket. "I'll hold onto that. Come on, Mike, this way." He takes a little bow as they step away from the table, and Mike has to wonder how the hell he can bend so easily at the waist at a time like this. He's been full before, but this is something beyond that. His pants actually feel too small, and it's hard to move without Harvey gently propelling him forward. 

"Congratulations," Donna tells them both as she walks up to them. "What's the prize?"

"Haven't even looked yet," Harvey says, smirking. "Just enjoying the moment. At the moment, it's all I require. What about you, Mike?" 

Mike thinks about it as well as he's able--which isn't all that well, honestly; seriously, it's like his brain is _made_ of hot dog right now--and looks directly at Harvey. "I demand victory kisses."

Donna laughs, and Harvey grins crookedly at him, his eyebrows high. "You demand them?"

"You couldn't have done it without me, could you?"

"Kid makes a good point, Harvey," Donna says, and Mike appreciates that she's on his side with this one. "I'd never have made it through eight. What, I topped out at six, didn't I? And you'd never got more than ten before this year. Give him his due."

Harvey rolls his eyes, but doesn't even come close to hiding the giant smile on his face. He gives Mike a good, hearty kiss, something Mike can definitely agree is worthy of the title of 'victory kiss'. It even makes him go a bit weak at the knees.

Actually, no, wait. That's not just the kiss. Mike's suddenly not feeling so hot. He's broken into a cold sweat and can feel himself shaking a little, but he swallows hard and tells his body to get over it. He'll be fine in a few minutes.

Harvey's fondling the edge of one of the envelopes in his pocket as they walk a bit farther from the table where the contest was held, and Mike has to admit he's now a bit curious as to what's inside those envelopes. He's about to ask Harvey to hand his over so he can see it, when Harvey's head follows something outside of Mike's immediate field of vision, and his eyebrows go up. "There are still bags of sour cream and onion chips?" he asks to no one in particular, and it's almost perverse, the expression on his face.

Donna rolls her eyes. "Mike's not going to love you any more if you get a pot belly," she warns, poking him in the stomach, and Mike thinks it's a damned good thing she chose Harvey to poke, and not him, because that would be upsetting a very delicate balance right now. 

Despite the fact that he's actually starting to feel worse, and not better, Mike has to laugh at the affronted look on Harvey's face at Donna's comment. Before he can say anything, Mike steps in. "I will love you as long as you continue to give me victory kisses," he says. 

Harvey laughs at that. "And I'll continue to give you victory kisses as long as you _keep winning_."

Mike grins. "Well, with that sort of incentive..." he says, smirking a bit himself, and Harvey leans in and gives him one more quick kiss. Mike's about to ask for a kiss for all twenty of those damn things they conquered, when he catches a whiff of something that makes him reflexively shudder. Someone walks by the three of them, clapping Harvey on the back, and Mike's unfortunately inhaling deeply as he gets a good look at the guy's hot dog, absolutely loaded with sauerkraut. 

Nope, that's it, he's out. Victory kisses will have to wait, because there's no way he's ruining the moment by throwing up all over Harvey.

He flees for the nearest bathroom and makes it in time. He's in there a good long while by himself, not even caring how obvious he's being. It's not like Harvey--and every one else at the picnic--is unaware why he's sprinted in here. No mystery. He finally tries to stand and moans, holding his arms tight around his stomach , and from outside, he hears Harvey's voice, clear as day:

"You hear that, Donna? That is the sound of ultimate suffering."

Mike can't see them, but he knows that muffled 'ow' is Donna giving Harvey a good smack, just before she sighs and answers, "Shut up, stop quoting that movie, and go get your boy, Harvey."

Harvey grumbles something unintelligible, but he comes in and crouches next to Mike. "Are you okay?" he asks, looking actually concerned. "Can you get up?"

Mike can't help it. He raises his head and gives Harvey a solemn look. "It's conceivable that I'm only lying here because I lack the strength to stand," he says, and he knows Harvey's little huff of breath is an amused, approving sound. "But, then again... perhaps I have the strength after all." He gets shakily to his feet, taking Harvey's offered hand up, and gives him the best smirk he can manage, under the circumstances.

Harvey chuckles. "Now that's my boy. Come on. Let's get you home."


	2. Mostly-Dead

Harvey's head is buzzing, and it takes him a disorienting several seconds to realize that it's just his phone vibrating, and his skull's not full of fuzzy bees.

It's hard to open his eyes. His entire body is made of pain and, as he opens his eyes, he has reason to believe he might actually still be a little drunk, though that could also just be exhaustion.

And still, that phone keeps buzzing.

Harvey groans as he tries to figure out where, exactly, his phone is, and the sound causes something to move at his side, making a soft, familiar noise. Mike.

It starts to come back to him, a little at a time.

It's Saturday. Yesterday was Friday. Harvey had left work at three, made it to his doctor's office by three-twenty, been pronounced in exemplary shape by three-forty, and been stabbed in the arm with a tetanus shot by three-forty-five. He'd been at the gym by four-fifteen, on the track by four-twenty-five, and in the boxing ring by five-thirty. Mike had left a message while he was in the shower, and Harvey had met him back at Pearson Hardman around seven-thirty, proud and pleased at how Mike's case had come out.

After that, time had lost its logical, regular quality.

There had been celebratory drinks, dinner, a few more drinks, and, sometime after midnight, enthusiastic, celebratory sex. He doesn't remember going to sleep, only collapsing with Mike upon the bed, a tangled, jello-like mass of limbs, liquor, and endorphins.

He's still sort of contorted, actually, and Mike's sprawled out, limbs everywhere, partially pinning Harvey to his spot. But at least Harvey's been able to locate his phone, somewhere in the sheets, above his head and Mike's, and he grabs it, not even caring who's on the other end, because all he wants to do is stop the buzzing.

Doesn't quite work out like that, though.

"Why won't my arm move?" he slurs, though that's mostly from exhaustion and sleep-fog. He squints. He can see his hand, but, no matter how he focuses on it, he can't get it to really do anything. Even when he tries making a fist, the only thing that happens is a minute twitching of his fingers.

"You've been mostly dead all day," Mike mumbles, rolling over so he's facing Harvey, though his eyes are still closed.

"Smart ass," Harvey says with a snort, though he has to admit he is amused by Mike's ability to quote a good movie at him without even being entirely conscious.

"Better than a dumbass," Mike says with a smirk, opening his eyes and shifting closer. He turns his head and yawns into the mattress, then wriggles upwards a little to place a kiss on the arm that won't listen to Harvey's orders.

And it's at that moment that Harvey gets some feeling back--that urgent, quickly-turning-painful sensation of pins-and-needles as his arm tries to wake back up. When his nerves recover a bit more, he notices the burning throb that's part vaccination reaction and part reminder of the boxing match he maybe got a little too invested in yesterday. He groans, weakly opening and closing his hand to try to speed things up, and tries not to glare as Mike rolls himself out of bed and stands.

"No miracle pills in your kitchen, I'm guessing," Mike says with another large yawn. "But I know you've got coffee. Be right back." He leans down and kisses Harvey on the forehead. Harvey considers throwing a pillow at him, but doesn't. Because he's going to make coffee, and Harvey knows he'll bring back two mugs, and not just one.

And maybe also because he still can't grab or lift anything with this arm. Yet.


	3. Halloween

"Hold it."

Mike instantly jerks to a stop at Donna's command, hand holding the cup of coffee and white paper bag from a bakery not far from the office still hovering above her desk. There's such authority in her tone, Mike counts himself lucky he didn't stop so quickly that he sloshed hot coffee on his hand and everything on her desk. He spins around to face her as she closes the door to Harvey's office behind her and approaches her desk. "What?" He tries to think of what he might have done wrong, but comes up with nothing.

"What have you done wrong?"

"Nothing!" He thinks harder, and really can't come up with anything. He hasn't fucked up anything at work, and he hasn't really had enough time with Harvey in the last few weeks to do anything wrong there, either, unless he's somehow doing wrong in not bothering Harvey more. That doesn't seem likely.

"Then why are you sneaking around, leaving coffee and bakery items on my desk?"

"I'm not sneaking around!" he insists, and he wasn't, not really. Not like that. "I just thought.... I just thought it might be a nice surprise for you to find when you sat down."

Donna steps behind her desk, keeping her eye on Mike as she moves, and Mike feels like he's being read from the inside out. "Coffee and a raspberry almond scone," she says as she opens the bag she's pulled out of Mike's hand. There's a little quirk to her smile as she looks at him more closely, and Mike tries not to squirm. "Ohhh, I see," she murmurs, and the smile turns into something else--something like pity. "Puppy's just looking to show a little love, since Harvey's been so neglectful."

"He hasn't been--"

"It's all right, Mike, you don't have to say anything," Donna says dramatically, holding up one hand and putting the other on her chest. "You've been a very good boy lately. It's not your fault he's been...well...like he has." Mike's about to argue, because, really, Harvey's not been _bad_ to him or anything--he's just been a little cranky because of a couple of cases and a project he and Louis have been tied together on, and they're practically at pre-dating levels of interaction--when Donna's sad, pitying look evaporates, replaced by a very large smile Mike's a little frightened of. "You know what you need?"

"...What?" Oh God, he shouldn't be this scared of her, after all this time and everything that's happened, but he still sort of is.

She gestures for him to lean forward, a conspiratorial look on her face, and he hunches over the partition so their heads are practically together over her desk. "You need a good story to cheer you up. And I've got the perfect one for you."

"You've got a story for me?" It's not at all what he expected, but she's definitely piqued his curiosity.

She nods. "I'm betting you haven't heard this one. Have you ever heard about the Halloween where Harvey, my roommate and I dressed as characters from _The Princess Bride_?"

Mike has most definitely _not_ heard this story. He actually has a hard time picturing Harvey wearing a costume at all, let alone going out with a group of people wearing themed costumes. "Nope."

Donna grins widely. "I thought not. Now listen up for story time like a good little boy." She settles herself into her chair and takes a sip of the coffee Mike's brought her. "Perfect. Now, let's see. Where do I begin? Ah, yes. Several years ago, Harvey had the bright idea for the three of us to head to my cousin's party, dressed in related costumes. I was Princess Buttercup, naturally. My roommate, Nancy, at four-foot-ten, was Vizzini, and Harvey was--"

"No."

Both Mike and Donna quickly look up to find Harvey standing over them. Mike feels distinctly like a kid who's been caught with his hand in the cookie jar and wonders if he can mumble a lame excuse and run away fast enough, but Donna's quicker. "I'm sorry, I believe I was in the middle of a story."

Harvey's jaw tightens. "No, you weren't." He gives Mike a look, but it's not truly angry. More... warning, but only because he's trying to stave off mortification, or keep an image.

"I was, actually," Donna says brightly, completely resistant to Harvey's glare. "As I was saying, Harvey was dressed as--"

"Donna!"

"No, he wasn't, but only because he can't fit into my things," she continues, and, when Harvey opens his mouth to interrupt her again, she holds up a hand, effectively shushing him, which Mike thinks might be one of the best things he's ever witnessed. She looks at Harvey and smirks. "You brought this on yourself, Harvey. How can you be so neglectful and harsh, when he makes that poor little puppy face?"

She gestures to Mike, who instantly looks up at Harvey with wide, sad eyes, and the twitch at the corner of Harvey's mouth that says he's trying not to smile lets Mike know that he is going to hear this story after all, much as Harvey's going to hate it. But Donna's on a roll and, short of pulling the fire alarm, or tackling her at her desk, Harvey probably can't do a damned thing to stop her. "See? Just look at that little face. He deserves something to cheer him up."

Harvey scowls at her, and Donna simply beams back at him until he seems to give up and hover, probably making sure no one else can hear, because she keeps right on with her story. "Harvey," she says, raising an eyebrow to make sure she's not about to be interrupted again, "went as The Man in Black, a.k.a. The Dread Pirate Roberts."

Mike can actually almost see it, Harvey in a simple costume like that, and he can't help but grin. "Go on." He gets a little scowl of his own from Harvey, but really doesn't care.

"It was actually pretty awesome. Or it would have been, if Harvey here read the information pamphlets that came with prescription medications back then. This particular October, our dear Harvey was fighting a battle against bronchitis. He'd just been given a round of antibiotics. On the night in question, he'd taken those, like a good boy, but neglected to read the bit about not drinking while on them. The result was...not pretty."

Mike can tell that she's loving the fact that Harvey has to hear this story again, and he can't help but smile. "Not pretty?"

"Let's just say Harvey, antibiotics, some Nyquil, and two gin and tonics don't exactly mix well."

"You're telling me he threw up on you?"

Donna smirks, and Harvey's scowl deepens. "No. Mike, you've seen the movie. Do you remember the scene when they storm the castle?"

He does, very clearly, and the beginnings of understanding start to glimmer down deep, and Mike smiles a little more. "Yeah?"

"Well, try to picture that scene where Fezzik drags Westley into the castle. Only picture Westley being dragged along not by Andre the Giant, but by Buttercup."

Mike's eyes widen, and he tries valiantly to keep from smirking, but it's a lost cause. "You're kidding."

"I most certainly am not. After Vizzini left with someone dressed like Freddy Kruger, it was up to poor Princess Buttercup to drag her supposed savior out to a cab, stuff him _into_ said cab, and haul his ass into his building, then into the elevator, and then drag him to his front door. He was at least able to lean against the wall, looking very much like he belonged in that scene from the movie, until I got his door open and managed to get him onto the couch." She looks up. "Isn't that right, Harvey?"

The tips of Harvey's ears are red, and whatever he says isn't agreement. It sounds more like a mumbled threat to take back the pair of vouchers for the spa weekend they'd given her after the company picnic, when Mike said they'd never use both prizes.

"And let me tell you, Mike: I may be amazing and an astonishing physical specimen, but Andre the Giant I am _not_."

The smirk on Mike's face is actually so wide it's almost painful, but he can't help it. God, what he wouldn't give to have video or something of this event, from the security footage in Harvey's building at the time, or anything else.

The phone on Donna's desk rings then, and, still smiling, she answers it, voice immediately professional. Mike looks up at Harvey, who's still glaring, and then Donna taps her wrist and gestures to the elevator, indicating that it's time for them to head down for court. Harvey just strides over to the elevator doors and waits for the elevator to hit their floor as Mike catches up to him. Without even looking Mike's way, he clears his throat. "This moment--that story--never gets mentioned again," he says brusquely. "Got it?"

"Yeah, sure, I got it," Mike says, finally getting his smirk under control. They step inside the elevator as the doors open, and stand alone against the railing in the back. Harvey looks a little less uptight at Mike's affirmation. But still, Mike can't help but open his mouth again. "Tell me, though," he says as the doors slide closed in front of them. "Do you still have that costume?" Harvey just whips his head around, jaw locked and eyes narrowed a little, and Mike steps a little closer, looks Harvey dead in the eye. "Because I think you'd look really hot in all black and wearing a mask," he whispers, and it's totally worth it for the little choked huff of breath and widened eyes from Harvey as Mike grabs him by the tie for a kiss that lasts until the doors open for someone else eleven floors down.

He's not kidding, though. Harvey'd look damn good in that outfit and mask. Maybe if he's _really_ good this year, he'll get to see it.


	4. Mike & Inigo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge apologies for the pause in updates, but my netbook's charger died on me (which I didn't notice until the battery was very nearly dead), but the new one's arrived (the RIGHT one, this time), and we should be good to go for the duration *crosses fingers*
> 
> ...Oh, and this is the point where my love of the (fl)angst makes an appearance.

Mike has been happy for the work week to be over before, but he's especially grateful to be able to bolt out of Pearson Hardman this Friday night.

He's been up to his eyeballs in briefs for pretty much the entire week, or at Louis's beck and call whenever Harvey's not immediately at Mike's side, and even Jessica's been tossing stuff his way, as if she's testing him, just waiting for him to either prove himself or fuck up enough to have something to take to Harvey. Harvey's assured Mike it's more that she's got an old friend who's increasingly leaning on Jessica for advice on a case, but, regardless of the reason, Mike feels a bit like everything's piling on right now. And the case that's been in the news for the last ten days isn't any help.

Everywhere Mike turns, there it is: the face of the little boy whose family was destroyed in a car accident, a hit-and-run involving a drunk driver which left a mother dead, a father in critical condition, and a cherub-faced seven-year-old with a handful of small injuries and a storm of reporters in his face as much as the kid's guardians will allow. Part of him wants to turn away from the news whenever the kid's face pops up, but a bigger part won't let himself. No surprise, really.

"You really don't mind that we're not going out?" Mike asks as they step into Harvey's condo. He'd said he was fine with meeting Harvey's friend for dinner and drinks, but Harvey'd given him a good, long, look, picked up his Blackberry, and left a quick voicemail that said little else other than something had come up, and they wouldn't be making dinner tonight. Mike feels sort of guilty about it, because it's not like they go out often with people Harvey knows that aren't also lawyers or that sort of thing.

"I made the decision, didn't I?" Harvey asks, eyebrows arching. "Besides, _The Godfather_ 's on. And trust me, dinner from that Greek place Ray clued me into is going to be a hell of a lot better than the overpriced steaks and fancy appetizers from Gemini's."

"Shouldn't we be eating Italian, if the plan is to spend three hours in front of the TV with that on?" Mike asks, allowing himself a smile.

"I think we'll be fine," Harvey says, shaking his head and rolling his eyes a little. "Unless you find a board of Italian film and cuisine to report us to."

Mike makes himself comfortable on the couch, his jacket, tie, and shoes put in their usual place while Harvey slips out of his suit and into jeans and yet another Henley; by the time Harvey's in the kitchen, digging for something in a drawer, Mike's already got the TV on, and is flipping through the channels. "You ever going to get your Blu-ray player fixed?" Mike calls into the kitchen. "Or, you know, get a NetFlix account like pretty much everybody else?" Harvey mumbles something back at him, but Mike doesn't make any of it out.

He finally finds the right version of HBO, with a little help from the menu on Harvey's cable service, and selects it. They've got some time before it starts, and the movie on right before _The Godfather_ is one Mike knows they both enjoy. Harvey lets out a muffled, triumphant sound from the kitchen, followed by another grunt of irritation, and Mike rolls his eyes, settling in to watch Billy Crystal as Miracle Max for a bit.

It isn't until he feels slight pain as he swallows that Mike even realizes his throat's tight and his eyes are starting to tear up. He brushes at his eyes, drying them on his sleeve, and curses himself for not thinking it through before this. He can never help but to identify with Inigo a little _too_ well at this point in the film, as he finds Rugen, only to end up with a knife to the stomach. Inigo doesn't have to worry about a statute of limitations or due process in his world, but Mike knows all too well how it feels to wish you could go after the bastard who left you an orphan.

Harvey wanders into the room, face half-buried in a badly-photocopied menu, and Mike hastily turns so that Harvey's not looking directly at his face from this angle. He wanders back out again, phone now at his ear, and Mike takes a moment to try to compose himself. He should know better. This isn't the first time he's ever felt a little overwhelmed by this part of the film, when all his empathy and own messed-up emotions tumble around inside of him a little too swiftly; Harvey has to have noticed by now that Mike has to take a bathroom break or get up for another beer at around this point more often than not when they've watched this together. Mike's always sure that Harvey's going to give him shit for it, but he hasn't yet. Then again, Mike's never actually sat with tears running down his face before, like he is tonight. He tries to suck it up, because Mike's seen Harvey just, like, swallow hard and lock his jaw at news that should be a damned hard blow--he's heard Donna mutter the phrase 'clear-eyed man-pain' before, and it's a good enough description that it's stuck in Mike's head. Mike knows he's the opposite, the kind of guy who shows what he's feeling, and he's trying hard to learn, for half a dozen reasons. It's just...with something like this, when he's already just... _done_...it's hard.

Harvey comes back into the room again, and Mike draws himself up a little, hides his face in his shoulder so it's not so obvious as Harvey repeats himself for what seems like the hundredth time on the phone. "No, I just want to place an order. For delivery," Mike hears him say, clearly frustrated. " _De-liv-er-y_." There's a very deliberate, firm nudge at Mike's shoulder, and Mike raises his head and looks to his side, finding a travel pack of tissues being brandished at him. Harvey raises his eyebrows and offers them again, more gently but no less insistent this time, that irritated line between his eyes forming more deeply. "No! Not 'dine-in'! Delivery!"

He's still holding them out to Mike, who finally takes them as Harvey mutters, half to himself and half into the phone. "Jesus Christ, if this food wasn't so good, I'd never put up with thi-- No, I don't want to hold again!" There's a frustrated grunt that Mike knows isn't aimed at him as he opens the tissues and Harvey walks over to the fridge and rummages around in there, probably looking for something to drink--or maybe, given the way things seem to be going, other food in case they starve to death before this order ever shows up. There's no denying Harvey's seen him all emotional now, and Mike wonders exactly what he'd say if he _weren't_ on the phone right now. It's bad to have Harvey see him like this, but it'd be worse to be forced to talk about it right now, with the way he feels.

There's quiet from Harvey over in the kitchen, and Mike assumes he's been put on hold after all. Mike blows his nose and uses the sleeve of his shirt to wipe at his eyes again, fighting the urge to just curl up in a ball of misery until he can sleep off this exhaustion and feeling of being burnt out and over-sensitive. He's even debating just telling Harvey to forget the food, and he'll go home and back to his place, because he's shitty company right now, as it happens. But before he can find the words to use that'll get him out with the least amount of trouble, Harvey paces back this way, open bottle of water now in hand, and stops behind the couch. He plants the hand with the water in it on the back of the couch's frame and starts to bend down, and Mike has the sudden, crazy thought that Harvey's about to kiss him, but that's nuts, because Harvey doesn't initiate kisses or displays of affection like that--he tells Mike how he feels (when they're alone, when there's no one else to witness something that blatantly contradicts Harvey's insistence that he doesn't have emotions), sure, but he doesn't generally offer that stuff up first unless it's a prelude to sex. But Harvey's face just gets closer, and Mike's too stunned at the prospect of something like this--some bit of affection, of comfort, but without being too direct about it, too pushy--to move.

Only before it happens--if it even _was_ going to happen--Mike hears a voice basically bellow something in the phone still at Harvey's ear, and Harvey practically shouts back and jerks upright, a reflex at hearing someone speak so loudly on the other end. Mike winces at the sudden noise and tells himself he must be fried, to think Harvey was going to kiss him on the top of the head or temple like that. That's a Mike thing in this relationship, and even then not so much, because Harvey's mastered that "don't patronise me" glare, even when he's mostly kidding about that sort of thing. Anyway, Harvey finally seems to be getting somewhere with the order, having progressed to actually listing the names of dishes, and Mike uses the little jolt and change in the air to shake himself out of this funk of his, or whatever you might call it.

By the time Harvey's off the phone, Mike feels mostly better (and having that bastard, Rugen, out of the picture might have only a little to do with it) and, by the time their food arrives and Mike's loaded up a plate with as much food as it'll hold, he feels almost normal again. Harvey says nothing about earlier, only teases Mike about taking the Greek tendency to eat until you can't move to heart, and Mike just sort of smirks and shrugs at him, because he's actually fucking famished, and it's not as if Harvey can't put down his fair share of food before Mike can get two-thirds into his own plate, if he wants.

It's a long movie, one Mike's been able to quote since he was a kid, but it still amuses him to watch things like this with Harvey, whom Mike catches mouthing along with certain lines; this time, between periods of watching and dozing, Mike sees Harvey silently move his lips along to _I got a business to run. I gotta kick asses sometimes to make it run right_ , and he can't help but grin, because, yeah, that's Harvey. Also Jessica, probably, in a metaphorical sense, but Harvey's not above a literal interpretation. By the time the credits roll, they both have empty plates on the coffee table in front of them, an empty bottle of beer apiece, and Mike's too tired and still too full to be much of anything else.

Harvey gets up, stretches his neck a couple of times, and takes their dishes and the paper bag of their leftover containers into the kitchen, where Mike can hear him put everything away. He shuts off the TV and stands as Harvey re-enters the room, and Harvey's yawn says exactly what Mike's thinking: "Bed?"

"If I make it that far," Harvey says through another yawn. "Go ahead and wash up first. I've got to take this trash out, or it'll reek of feta and kalamata olives in the morning. Not what I want to smell when I'm trying to remember how to make coffee."

Mike scoffs a little, heading for the bathroom. "You just push a button. What's to remember?" Then again, he has seen Harvey pre-caffeine. Some mornings, even that's pushing his functionality, which is why Mike ends up making them both a cup sometimes.

He's already in bed and half asleep by the time Harvey climbs under the covers, and the slight pull of Harvey's hand on Mike's hip is enough to let Mike know to lift his head so Harvey can slide his arm underneath the pillow and situate himself closer. Mike does, but rolls over so he can face Harvey, too. It's late, he's exhausted, and he really doesn't want to talk about certain things, but he does want to say something. "Hey," he whispers as Harvey turns out the light and settles in with him. "Thanks."

It's dark as hell in here, but not pitch-black, and Mike can see the genuinely confused look on Harvey's face from this close. "For what?"

Mike searches for the words to explain it, but can't find them. He's lost them to exhaustion, or just that ineffable swirl of things he's feeling, and there's no way to really tell Harvey what he felt when he handed over the tissues, or didn't demand Mike talk about his issues, instead letting it slide and joking as usual. Because sometimes Harvey knows these things on his own, without anyone telling him, and that's the best part--him just _knowing_ , because he knows Mike.

Mike just shakes his head and scoots even closer to Harvey, who rests his other arm, the one not under the pillow under Mike's head, on Mike's hip, his fingers curling loosely and brushing at the small of Mike's back. "Just. Thanks." He tilts his head up and presses his mouth against Harvey's, more than just a little pleased and relieved when Harvey kisses him back for a moment, rubbing his thumb against Mike's hipbone, before they both give in to sleep.


	5. Drop Your Sword

Mike is smart, and Harvey will even grudgingly admit that he has moments of sheer brilliance, but sometimes, Mike is also a complete idiot.

It should be better than this--they've got the ruling they've been working for, a win against this guy in a civil suit when the criminal one somehow went to hell and got him acquitted--but being thrown this new strategy in the damages phase almost seems worse. At least, it definitely does to Mike, judging from his reaction.

Harvey knows that Nathan Channing should be facing prison time for leaving the scene of a fatal car crash--in fact, the entire state of New York seems to know it, with the exception of the twelve members of the jury who served in the criminal trial against him. It was big news until the arrest, and then after, and it's probably miracle enough there wasn't a mistrial. He got out of criminal charges, but a combination of Mike's insistence they take over the pro bono case when Jessica's friend begged for help, and Harvey's experience and general talent in a courtroom, ensured that he wasn't so lucky in the civil suit.

But this new move? This is just _low_. So low, in fact, that Harvey wasn't sure he'd even _heard_ Channing's lawyer correctly when he'd so casually mentioned the intent to hide behind the bastard's incorporated status. If that comment truly does mean that Channing's been holding most of his personal wealth as corporation funds, or even sneaking them in during recent months, just so he looks poor on paper, then they've got a series of hurdles to jump over to prove it. It might even mean asking Louis for help, which is its own little hurdle. Worst of all, it stands a chance of working, which makes Harvey intensely irritated.

Mike, however, is somewhat more than irritated.

Harvey knows the second Mike fully processes Channing's intent (or that of Archie Volmer, the smug, slimy bastard of an attorney, who's currently standing before them, looking smug and even slimier than usual, if that's even possible). The moment it all clicks, Mike goes dead-still and pale, no longer interested in the lunch he'd been in the middle of suggesting. It's a frighteningly short period of time afterwards that Mike's face is red and he's practically vibrating with rage.

He's also pretty much past the point of common sense. And Harvey gets it, really, he does. He knows about Mike's parents, about the lack of justice served because no one had thought there might be any more to do, other than just mourn the tragedy. And he knows that, even before the Channing case went to criminal trial, Mike's been emotionally invested in this thing. He no doubt sees himself in that poor kid who's stuck with his aunt. In some ways, it's been an asset, Mike's empathy. Right now, however, with the way Mike's breathing hard and his hands are clenched into fists at his side, a simple glance is all that's needed to know he's about two seconds from shouting "I'll kill you where you stand!" or something along those lines....

Yeah, definitely more of a liability than an asset.

And all the subtle tricks Harvey can think of to calm him down, to redirect and refocus that hatred into something they can actually _use_ , to just fucking _walk away_ , aren't doing a damned bit of good.

Okay, Harvey's thrown a punch or two, even taken a couple to suit his purpose, but that's not a technique that'll work for someone like Mike, especially not at this point in his career. Archie Volmer's not even paying them attention anymore; he's just peering around the corner, waiting for his own driver to show up. So when Mike takes a step towards the unsuspecting bastard, eyes flashing and one fist starting to rise, Harvey gives up on subtle and dealing with the other side with a mixture of sarcasm and cockiness, and physically inserts himself into the situation.

He presses against Mike's chest, not with the palm of his hand, but with the length of his forearm, letting Mike meet the resistance of a body that's got a fair amount of muscle and that spends some decent time in the gym, before Harvey steps into it and pushes him up against the brick wall. He can't think of anything succinct enough to say that will actually get through, will let Mike know this isn't the best way to handle it, because reason doesn't really factor into things right now, and Harvey knows that. So instead, he does the one thing that _might_ just get through, short of punching Mike himself to stop his advance--he takes a deep breath, leans in close, his mouth only an inch or two from Mike's ear, and growls: "Drop. Your. Sword." Half the fun is in finding the right context, and this could be better, but it's good enough, all things considered.

The effect is immediate. Mike goes rigid, shuddering just a little, and Harvey can hear his sharp, sudden inhalation, and see the way he holds that breath. Volmer's driver picks that moment to swing around in his car, and Volmer slides into the back seat alone, seemingly unaware of the two men standing up against the wall as the car drives off. Idly, Harvey wonders if he can use his associate's readiness to physically assault a defendant's attorney as an excuse to get out of future pro bono work.

Harvey steps back just a little, ready to force Mike to see reason and logic--retreat isn't always cowardly, and half of the battle is knowing when you're beat, or knowing when the hell to walk away and restrategize--but doesn't get the chance.

He gets halfway to a normal distance away, his arm no longer pinning Mike against the wall, when Mike reaches out and grabs Harvey's tie--the navy and royal blue Ermenegildo Zegna with the subtle silver threads, the one that cost two hundred dollars and is being cruelly crushed in Mike's sweaty fist--and yanks him back, crashing their mouths together.

Okay, so Mike's no longer homicidal. He's still really, really impassioned, though, or so Harvey assumes.

It's a bit of a switch, to go from thinking your associate's about to assault someone with his fists, to making out with said associate up against the brick wall in the middle of the day, but Harvey handles it as best he can. Mostly by enjoying the hell out of it. He's usually the one to be forceful, but it's not as if Mike's always passive. Hell, that general enthusiasm is one of the things Harvey likes best about Mike, though he won't always admit it.

There does come a point, however, where enthusiasm must be tempered.

"We're about thirty seconds or a quick crotch-grab from being arrested for indecency," Harvey finally manages to get out, smoothing the tie he's just been able to extract from Mike's grip. It'll be all right, probably. It was also likely worth it, if it isn't.

"You growled," Mike says, letting his head fall back against the wall. His pupils are much bigger than they should be in the sunlight, and Harvey can see that he's half-hard. Hell, Harvey's not too far from there himself. If he let himself, he'd be a lot more than sort of there. But being arrested outside the court building is not exactly on his list of things to do today.

"You weren't taking the hint," Harvey says, loosening his tie and collar. He wonders if Ray's discretion extends to conveniently not noticing if his clients are engaged in some rather intimate activities in the back of his vehicle. He's actually never seriously needed to wonder that before. It's a pity his office is all glass walls and giant windows. "It was the only effective thing I could think of on such short notice."

"You _know_ what that does to me," Mike groans, trying to straighten himself out as Ray appears from around the corner. "I've told you that, haven't I?"

"No, actually, you haven't." Now that he knows, though, Harvey's going to have to remember that little tidbit--partially to remember to do it when the situation warrants, but also so that he remembers _not_ to do it when it absolutely doesn't.

"File room should be empty when we get back," Mike murmurs as he slides into the car, right behind Harvey, as if he's read Harvey's mind on that one. "If, you know, you want to do something with _your_ sword, other than just drop it."

Harvey rolls his eyes and allows himself a very discreet squeeze of Mike's thigh as they settle in. "Only if you stop with the sword puns."

"Deal."


	6. As You Wish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that got the entire fic rolling, as it happens. MajaLi and I were watching the film together, flailing at each other via IM (as we do), and bemoaning the injustice that tumblr wasn't around when Cary Elwes was young. Once we got to the last bit of the film, she threw out a scenario where Harvey might quote a particular line. I responded with my quite different take on the quote (here, it's Mike who uses the line), and that's when I (or was it we?) decided this fic was happening. She gets credit for getting this thing to happen, and additional credit for the comment that sparked Chapter Four, and clarifying a bunch of legal things (most of which I didn't even use, whoops) in the planning of Chapter Five.

There are some days where the one of the best things to clear Harvey's head is a good, long run and a hot shower, or a nice, intense bout with a punching bag or capable partner. But other times, like tonight, there's nothing better than some mellow jazz for letting his brain do its thing.

It's late enough on a Friday that Pearson Hardman isn't full of bustling secretaries and clients and associates darting to and fro. Actually, the associates have been scarce since eleven--Louis yanked them all to go through the discovery on the Tsouris case, and the nauseating smirk on his face when he'd clarified to Harvey that he had Jessica's permission to snag every last one, including Mike, made Harvey almost want to skip his lunch. It's the perfect sort of evening to turn off a few of the lights, sprawl on the couch in his office, and toss a baseball absently into the air as he listens to something with a good saxophone melody. Settlement negotiations aren't Harvey's favorite thing, but they're necessary in his world, and there's nothing quite like figuring out exactly where he thinks he can get the other side to budge, and what he thinks his client might be likely to give up without wanting to come across the desk and strangle him.

Other people might do this sort of thing with a pen and legal pad in front of them, putting things in columns and tables, but Harvey finds it most effective to just let his mind poke at things before writing anything down and trapping himself into a corner, getting hung up on a detail. That part will come later, but for now, this early on, he just lets instinct and his gut guide his brain around. Tomorrow morning, he'll worry about all the nit-picky details and triple-checking his notes.

He's already discarded a handful of things to ask Carlo Orrino to consider giving up or easing up on in his list of demands (Orrino doesn't do requests, though Harvey's learned how to handle him over the years so well that, most of the time, his client doesn't even realize he's being handled) when he glances outside of his office, to Donna's desk. She's still there, but she's in the process of shutting down her computer, and Harvey knows she's finally finished the project she was working on. She's not alone, though--Mike's there, leaning forward on the partition and talking to her, and whatever they're talking about, Donna laughs.

Mike grins a little in response and, though Harvey can't hear a word they say, their body language shows enough: they're at ease with each other, relaxed and friendly at the end of the work day, easing past the boundaries of their roles within Pearson Hardman. The grin lights Mike up just a little, and maybe it's the color of his suit or his tie, or the way his hair sticks up in that particular way, or the way he's fiddling with something on Donna's desk, like all that extra energy has to leak out _somewhere_ , or maybe the way his hair is flattened a little on the left because that's where Mike rests his head on his hand when he's reading, or even just the slight crookedness of his smile, but Harvey can't help but stare for a moment, unable to drag his thoughts back to settlement negotiations.

Harvey keeps watching, his breath held just a little, as Mike calls out and says something to Donna, who's walking to the elevators, purse already on her shoulder; he can't stop the physical feeling of warmth that rapidly fills him, an all-consuming, entirely familiar affection, and he doesn't even want to. Harvey keeps himself in check over a lot of things, though not always as well as he should, but this is an urge of a different sort, irresistible and new in its intensity, and he finds himself possessed of the need to do something about it. What he and Mike have is both new and yet not, but it's something Harvey can no longer see himself without.

Donna comes back, reaches into her desk, and hands Mike a pen and a pad of sticky notes before patting him on the shoulder like one pats a good dog on the head, then walks away again. Mike's engrossed in whatever he's writing, the tip of his tongue poking out just a little at the side of his mouth, and Harvey makes the decision to act, because there's not a damned thing that keeps Harvey Specter from doing what he wants when the urge is so strong, and he knows it's right.

He stands and strides to his office door, and he's already out and nearly at Donna's desk before Mike even looks up, startled, and sees him there. "Harvey? I didn't even know you were still h--" is as far as he gets before Harvey reaches him, cups one hand at the back of Mike's head, and kisses him.

It's not a short, fierce kiss, something forceful or fiery like Harvey usually goes for when they're fooling around. This one is long, deep, and earnest, because, for some reason, that's what feels necessary. Harvey can do a lot with words, even a good amount with facial expressions, but right now he just wants to somehow show Mike just how much he cares about him, and words won't be adequate. He doesn't say it enough, probably, and it's sort of hit him that he certainly doesn't show it enough. A demonstration might be worth thousands of words, anyway.

The pen in Mike's hand clatters to the ground, and Mike presses into him just a little. Harvey can feel him sigh, can feel the slight tremble run through him, and he kisses him for just a moment longer, wondering how he's been so remiss in doing something like this for so long, when it's so amazing.

He pulls away, a slow, gentle break, and looks at Mike, trying to hold his gaze. Mike, however, just looks stunned, his eyes almost unfocused. "Mike?" he says after a moment, but Mike still just stands there. "Hey. Say something. Was that wrong?"

Mike's eyes focus a little; he looks up to catch Harvey's eye, and when he speaks, it's with a slowly-spreading grin. "Since the invention of the kiss, there have only been five kisses that were rated the most passionate, the most pure. This one left them all behind.”

By the time Mike finishes, his cheeks flushed and eyes wide and bright, a giant, goofy smile on his face, Harvey can't help but think this might be his favorite moment in the last six months. He laughs softly, knowing he shouldn't be surprised in the least that Mike's chosen this moment to quote a movie at him, and especially not this one. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Mike looks up at the clock on the far wall, then back at Harvey. "Past quitting time. Think we can head out, maybe have a quiet evening in? Watch a movie or something on your couch?"

Harvey grins, because it sounds like the perfect way to spend the evening. He tilts his head so that their foreheads are pressed together. "As you wish," he whispers, and the look on Mike's face just before Harvey kisses him again, slow and tender, is one Harvey never, ever wants to forget.


End file.
